PAYCHECK 7/31/52. Imagination, June 1953.
How much is a key to a bus locker worth? One day it's worth 25 cents, the next day thousands of dollars. In this story, I got to thinking that there are times in our lives when having a dime to make a phone call spells the difference between life and death. Keys, small change, maybe a theater ticket—how about a parking receipt for a Jaguar? All I had to do was link this idea up with time travel to see how the small and useless, under the wise eyes of a time traveler, might signify a great deal more. He would know when that dime might save your life. And, back in the past again, he might prefer that dime to any amount of money, no matter how large. (1976)
THE GREAT C 7/31/52. Cosmos Science Fiction and Fantasy, Sept 1953. [Parts of this story were adapted for the novel DEUS IRAE.]
OUT IN THE GARDEN 7/31/52. Fantasy Fiction, Aug 1953.
THE KING OF THE ELVES ("Shadrach Jones and the Elves") 8/4/52. Beyond Fantasy Fiction, Sept 1953.
This story, of course, is fantasy, not sf. Originally it had a downbeat ending on it, but Horace Gold, the editor who bought it, carefully explained to me that prophecy always came true; if it didn't ipso facto it wasn't prophecy. I guess, then, there can be no such thing as a false prophet; "false prophet" is an oxymoron. (1978)
COLONY 8/11/52. Galaxy, June 1953.
The ultimate in paranoia is not when everyone is against you but when everything is against you. Instead of "My boss is plotting against me," it would be "My boss's phone is plotting against me." Objects sometimes seem to possess a will of their own anyhow, to the normal mind; they don't do what they're supposed to do, they get in the way, they show an unnatural resistance to change. In this story I tried to figure out a situation which would rationally explain the dire plotting of objects against humans, without reference to any deranged state on the part of the humans. I guess you'd have to go to another planet. The ending on this story is the ultimate victory of a plotting object over innocent people. (1976)
PRIZE SHIP ("Globe From Ganymede") 8/14/52. Thrilling Wonder Stories, Winter 1954.
NANNY 8/26/52. Startling Stories, Spring 1955.
Volume Two
THE COLLECTED STORIES OF PHILIP K. DICK
SECOND VARIETY
Introduction by Norman Spinard
U/M
UNDERWOOD/MILLER
Los Angeles, California
Columbia, Pennsylvania
1987
VOLUME TWO
THE COLLECTED STORIES OF PHILIP K. DICK
SECOND VARIETY
Slipcased Edition: ISBN O-88733-052-5 (set)
Trade Edition: ISBN O-88733-053-3 (set)
Copyright © 1987 by The Estate of Philip K. Dick
Introduction © 1987 by Norman Spinrad
Entire contents Copyright © 1987 by The Estate of Philip K. Dick. Individual stories were copyrighted in their year of first publication (see "Notes" at the back of each volume for more information) and copyrights have been renewed by Philip K. Dick and The Estate of Philip K. Dick as applicable. Previously unpublished stories arc Copyright © 1987 by The Estate of Philip K. Dick. All rights reserved.
The excerpt by Philip K. Dick which appears in the beginning of this volume is from a collection of interviews with the author conducted by Paul Williams and published in ONLY APPARENTLY REAL, Arbor House, 1986. Used with permission.
For information about the Philip K. Dick Society. write to PKDS, Box 611, Glen Ellen, CA 95442 USA.
An Underwood-Miller book by arrangement with the author's agent and estate. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without explicit permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages. For information address the publisher, Underwood-Miller, 515 Chestnut Street, Columbia, PA 17512.
Printed in the United States of America
Typesetting by Metro Typography, Santa Cruz, California
Book Design: Underwood-Miller.
All Rights Reserved
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number
87- 50l56
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
THE COOKIE LADY
BEYOND THE DOOR
SECOND VARIETY
JON'S WORLD
THE COSMIC POACHERS
PROGENY
SOME KINDS OF LIFE
MARTIANS COME IN CLOUDS
THE COMMUTER
THE WORLD SHE WANTED
A SURFACE RAID
PROJECT: EARTH
THE TROUBLE WITH BUBBLES
BREAKFAST AT TWILIGHT
A PRESENT FOR PAT
THE HOOD MAKER
OF WITHERED APPLES
HUMAN IS
ADJUSTMENT TEAM
THE IMPOSSIBLE PLANET
IMPOSTER
JAMES P. CROW
PLANET FOR TRANSIENTS
SMALL TOWN
SOUVENIR
SURVEY TEAM
PROMINENT AUTHOR
NOTES
INTRODUCTION
By Norman Spinrad
Philip K. Dick's debut story, Beyond Lies the Wub, was first published in 1952. This volume, SECOND VARIETY, contains 27 short stories published between 1952 and 1955, when his first novel, SOLAR LOTTERY, appeared. What is more, it does not include every story he published during the first four years of his career either.
That in itself is quite remarkable. Few writers could boast such prodigious publication in the first four years of their careers, even in this period, when markets for short sf were relatively abundant and editors had many slots to fill. And while it must be admitted that there are a certain number of fairly trivial gimmick stories in this book, the majority of them already show many of the unique virtues of Dick's more mature work, and even the least of them are written in his unmistakable voice.
Considering that they were written in such a brief period by a new writer in the first flush of his career, that Dick must have been churning them out rapidly to make money and a name, these 27 stories are also quite remarkable for what they are not.
There is not really an action-adventure formula story in here. No space opera. No nuts and bolts. No fully-developed alien civilizations. No intrepid stock heroes, villains, mad scientists, no real good guys versus bad guys at all. From the very outset, Dick wrote as if the commercial conventions of the sf genre did not exist. Even the one-punch gimmick stories are Dickian gimmicks. From the beginning, Dick was reinventing science fiction, turning it into a literary instrument for his own concerns, and yes, obsessions.
What we have here is a kind of fascinating time capsule, 27 stories published before Philip K. Dick's first novel, the compressed short fiction apprenticeship of a writer who was to go on to become one of the great novelists of the twentieth century and arguably the greatest metaphysical novelist of all time.
Dick began writing during what at least in a publishing sense was the greatest transformation that science fiction has ever seen. In the early 1950s, the magazines were still the dominant mode of sf publication, meaning that short fiction was still the dominant form. By the time he published SOLAR LOTTERY in 1955, the paperback book was on its way to becoming the dominant publishing mode, and the novel therefore the dominant form.
In the 1950s, with the standard advance for an sf novel being about $1500, any writer trying to eke out a precarious living writing sf was still constrained to crank out short stories for the magazines. And what with novel slots still being limited, one was also constrained to make one's mark as a short story writer before a publisher was about to grant a novel contract at all.
Nor, in hindsight, as evidenced by this volume, was this, in literary terms at least, a bad thing, even for a writer like Dick, whose natural metier was the novel. These 27 stories, and the others published before SOLAR LOTTERY, were an apprenticeship in the best sense of the term.
Reading these stories one after the other in a s
ingle volume, one is indeed struck by a certain sameness, a certain repetitiveness, a certain series of recurrences, a sense of a writer staking out the territory of his future oeuvre. We would see the same thing in the short fiction of other writers of the period, and even much later, in the early short fiction, for example, of John Varley, William Gibson, Lucius Shepard, Kim Stanley Robinson.
But in this book, what we see is a uniquely Dickian sameness.
Most sf writers who stake out a territory in their early short fiction that they will later explore at greater length and depth tend to create a consistent universe like Larry Niven's "Known Space" or recurring characters like Keith Laumer's Retief or a historical template like Robert A. Heinlein's "Future History," and not infrequently all three.
In part this is a commercial strategy. A new writer naive or crazy enough to actually attempt a career as a full-time sf short story writer has to write a lot of fiction rather rapidly to stay afloat. It is much easier to reuse settings, history, and characters than to begin from zero each time out, and, as network TV has long proven, the episodic series is the fastest way to build an audience too.
That, however, is not what Philip K. Dick did. There are no real recurring characters in these stories. There is no attempt to set them all in a consistent universe. Except for some rather tenuous connections between Second Variety, Jon's World, and James P. Crow, there is really no attempt at a consistent future history either.
But there most certainly are recurrences of theme, imagery, and metaphysical concerns, and we will see them again and again in Dick's subsequent novels, expanded upon, recomplicated, deepened, made quite vast.
The Earth reduced to a nuclear ash heap. Robot weapons systems evolving towards baleful anti-empathetic pseudo-life. Human freedom ground down in the name of military security, economic prosperity, or even order for its own sake. Interpenetrating realities. Ironic time-loops and paradoxes. Ordinary people holding ordinary jobs as the heroes and heroines trying to muddle through.
These stories were written during the fever pitch of the Cold War, the height of the anti-Communist hysteria engendered by Senator Joseph McCarthy and the House Un-American Activities Committee, the nadir of the nuclear war paranoia, when school children were taught to hide under their desks when the air raid sirens went off. And on an obvious level they reflect this quite overtly. They show that Dick was a writer of deep political concern from the very outset.
But they show something much more. At a time when there was no little danger in voicing such views, Dick spoke out loud and clear against the prevailing hysterias of the times—against militarism, security obsession, xenophobia, and chauvinism.
Further, what these stories juxtapose against these large scale political evils are not equally large scale political virtues but the intimate small scale human and spiritual virtues of modest heroism, caritas, and most of all the empathy that, in the end, is finally what distinguishes the human from the machine, the spiritual from the mechanical, authentic being from even the most cunningly crafted pseudo-life.
And if we already see here what was to be the great theme and the spiritual core of Philip K. Dick's whole career, so too do we see in these stories the genesis of the characteristic literary technique which so cogently brings it down to an intimate and specific human level—Dick's use of multiple viewpoint characters.
True, his use of multiple viewpoint techniques is not always perfect in these early stories. Sometimes he cavalierly shifts viewpoint within a scene for mere narrative convenience. Sometimes he introduces a new viewpoint character in media res just to give us a scene he cannot easily render from viewpoints he has already established. Sometimes a viewpoint character appears for only a few paragraphs and then disappears.
Dick is learning multiple viewpoint technique in these stories. Indeed, it may be more accurate to say that he is inventing it, for few if any writers had really used multiple viewpoint this way before Dick, and all of us who were to adopt it later owe a great debt to him, whether we consciously realize it or not.
For what the Dickian multiple viewpoint technique allows the writer to do is to tell the story from within the consciousness, the spirit, the heart, of several characters, not merely one. It allows intimacy, it grants the reader empathy, with the multiplexity of the human spirit within the confines of a single tale. And in the hands of a master like Philip K. Dick, it becomes a series of windows into the metaphysical multiplexity of reality itself, the perfect merger of theme and form.
These 27 stories are not perfect. It would be a disservice to the truth and to Philip K. Dick's literary reputation to contend that they represent the full flowering of the mature talent to come. But they too are a series of windows, windows into the past, into the beginnings of a great spirit's long and mighty journey, and windows too into the future, into the fully developed vision of the mature master the talented young apprentice who wrote them was one day destined to become.
Norman Spinrad
October, 1986
Paranoia, in some respects, I think, is a modern-day development of an ancient, archaic sense that animals still have—quarry-type animals—that they're being watched… I say paranoia is an atavistic sense. It's a lingering sense, that we had long ago, when we were—our ancestors were—very vulnerable to predators, and this sense tells them they're being watched. And they're being watched probably by something that's going to get them…
And often my characters have this feeling.
But what really I've done is, I have atavized their society. That although it's set in the future, in many ways they're living—there is a retrogressive quality in their lives, you know? They're living like our ancestors did. I mean, the hardware is in the future, the scenery's in the future, but the situations are really from the past.
—Philip K. Dick in an interview, 1974
THE COOKIE LADY
"WHERE YOU GOING, BUBBER?" Ernie Mill shouted from across the street, fixing papers for his route.
"No place," Bubber Surle said.
"You going to see your lady friend?" Ernie laughed and laughed. "What do you go visit that old lady for? Let us in on it!"
Bubber went on. He turned the corner and went down Elm Street. Already, he could see the house, at the end of the street, set back a little on the lot. The front of the house was overgrown with weeds, old dry weeds that rustled and chattered in the wind. The house itself was a little gray box, shabby and unpainted, the porch steps sagging. There was an old weather-beaten rocking chair on the porch with a torn piece of cloth hanging over it.
Bubber went up the walk. As he started up the rickety steps he took a deep breath. He could smell it, the wonderful warm smell, and his mouth began to water. His heart thudding with anticipation, Bubber turned the handle of the bell. The bell grated rustily on the other side of the door. There was silence for a time, then the sounds of someone stirring.
Mrs. Drew opened the door. She was old, very old, a little dried-up old lady, like the weeds that grew along the front of the house. She smiled down at Bubber, holding the door wide for him to come in.
"You're just in time," she said. "Come on inside, Bernard. You're just in time—they're just now ready."
Bubber went to the kitchen door and looked in. He could see them, resting on a big blue plate on top of the stove. Cookies, a plate of warm, fresh cookies right out of the oven. Cookies with nuts and raisins in them.
"How do they look?" Mrs. Drew said. She rustled past him, into the kitchen. "And maybe some cold milk, too. You like cold milk with them." She got the milk pitcher from the window box on the back porch. Then she poured a glass of milk for him and set some of the cookies on a small plate. "Let's go into the living room," she said.
Bubber nodded. Mrs. Drew carried the milk and the cookies in and set them on the arm of the couch. Then she sat down in her own chair, watching Bubber plop himself down by the plate and begin to help himself.
Bubber ate greedily, as usual, intent on the cookies, sil
ent except for chewing sounds. Mrs. Drew waited patiently, until the boy had finished, and his already ample sides bulged that much more. When Bubber was done with the plate he glanced toward the kitchen again, at the rest of the cookies on the stove.
"Wouldn't you like to wait until later for the rest?" Mrs. Drew said.
"All right," Bubber agreed.
"How were they?"
"Fine."
"That's good." She leaned back in her chair. "Well, what did you do in school today? How did it go?"
"All right."
The little old lady watched the boy look restlessly around the room. "Bernard," she said presently, "won't you stay and talk to me for a while?" He had some books on his lap, some school books. "Why don't you read to me from your books? You know, I don't see too well any more and it's a comfort to me to be read to."
"Can I have the rest of the cookies after?"
"Of course."
Bubber moved over towards her, to the end of the couch. He opened his books, World Geography, Principles of Arithmetic, Hoyte's Speller. "Which do you want?"
She hesitated. "The geography."
Bubber opened the big blue book at random. PERU. "Peru is bounded on the north by Ecuador and Columbia, on the south by Chile, and on the east by Brazil and Bolivia. Peru is divided into three main sections. These are, first—"
The little old lady watched him read, his fat cheeks wobbling as he read, holding his finger next to the line. She was silent, watching him, studying the boy intently as he read, drinking in each frown of concentration, every motion of his arms and hands. She relaxed, letting herself sink back in her chair. He was very close to her, only a little way off. There was only the table and lamp between them. How nice it was to have him come; he had been coming for over a month, now, ever since the day she had been sitting on her porch and seen him go by and thought to call to him, pointing to the cookies by her rocker.
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 53
